


Life Goes On

by orphan_account



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU (Comics)
Genre: Blood and Gore, Dissociation, Gen, Graphic Description, Grief/Mourning, Not Beta Read, Self-Harm, Suicide, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-11
Updated: 2019-10-11
Packaged: 2020-12-08 00:23:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20984891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Doesn't it?





	Life Goes On

The weeks following were uneventful, to say the least.

Routine went on as usual. He woke up at 5:00 AM sharp, attended to his hygiene, put on his freshly ironed uniform and grabbed his backpack. He'd eat breakfast and pat Titus on the head before walking out the door. Once he was in the Mercedes, Alfred would ask him what he had planned for today, and if he had any after school activities. Then, as they reaced the building, they exchanged goodbyes and the day started. At 3:00 PM, he was back in the Mercedes, and Alfred would instead ask him how his day went, and if he had any homework, to which he'd reply that his day was fine and his homework had been completed. Walking into the manor, he'd pat Titus again and grab a snack. Afterwards, it was either training, art or practicing violin. By nightfall, his suit was on, and the next few hours were spent putting the scum of Gotham in their place. He'd retire after showering, and the day would start over again.

Everything was normal, if he could ignore the world around him.

When he didn't, it was obvious that, though normal, nothing was exactly right.

First, Dick was there. It wasn't odd that he stop by for a few hours, or possibly a few days if he had some time off, but he'd been there since the night it happened. As soon as he recieved the call, he was in his car, and then he was there, and hadn't left.

Damian enjoyed his company, for the most part. He was a bit annohing, extremely overbearing, but he was tolerable. However, these few weeks were much different.

There were bags under his eyes. Heavy, dark, almost layered. Damian couldn't pinpoint if they were from crying or from lack of sleep, so he settled for a combination of both. He spoke softly, a huge contrast to his deafening voice Damian had grown up around. He would grab Damian while they were on patrol if he got too close to the edge of a building, or if a bullet was flying towards him, despite knowing well that he could easily dodge it. The most bizarre thing were his late-night talks with Bruce at the dining room table. Damian would make no noise as he ascended the staircase, only to stop at the bottom to listen as closely as he could. Little words could be made out, but there was a sniffle every once in a while, and a rustle of clothes. Once satisfied knowing there wasn't a fight, he would go back upstairs and pretend nothing happened.

Second, there were cigarette butts everywhere. Of course, Alfred picked them up as often as possible, but it seemed like they were never-ending. Damian never caught who it was that decided it was a good idea to break into the Wayne's garden and destroy their lungs, but it was easy to conclude it was Jason. There were always bite marks on the burnt orange ends, much like the pencils Jason had left in his room as a teenager. They were squished to the ground under a steel-toed boot, and not gently. Also, even if it was a coincidence, they were mostly around the area where orchids bloomed; his favorite flower. Jason never stepped inside, from what Damian could see, and even on the colder nights where no one should be outside, there were more and more scattered around the path, in the grass, and by the orchids.

Third, Stephanie hadn't called. It was a blessing any other time, but now, it was troubling. Any time the phone rang, the person who answered it would ask if it was her, and when it wasn't, they would slump just a bit at the shoulders. Dick contacted Barbara a few times, wondering if she'd seen Stephanie at all, to which the answer was always no. Duke and Harper would speak about her casually, but only in passing, signaling that they hadn't seen or heard from her either. Despite how much Damian prayed for this when he was young, his head still popped up when the door opened, and went down once more when a lock of blonde hair wasn't spotted.

Fourth, the animals standed guard at his door. There were times when they left, to eat or bid someone goodbye and say hello at the door, but otherwise, they were always there, either whining softly or sniffing at the crack between the wood and fine carpet. Damian missed the way Alfred the Cat would sit on his lap while he watched TV, and how Titus would follow him everywhere, but he didn't dare try to move them. He supposed, in some way, this must be their way of grieving.

Fifth, everything Damian created, for projects or personal use, seemed to revolve around death. If he were a few years younger, this wouldn't alarm anyone, but these weren't about causing it in the slightest. Instead, they were about the way of death, and how it affected everyone. How death was absolutely final, and that there was no way to turn it around. When his AP English teached assigned them an essay about Romeo and Juliet, he couldn't focus on the parts of romance, or the quarrel of their families. His mind was set on the ending, where the forbidden lovers killed themselves for each other. He recieved a high grade for it, but as the teacher gave him his papers back, she patted him on the back with a sympathetic look. His artwork wasn't much different. Body parts in rigor mortis, blood stained clothing and wide, unseeing eyes were what filled the pages. It wasn't subconcious, but art never truly was for him. It was a way of getting whatever was on his mind out, to let it rest. Usually, one painting would be enough, but nearly fifty pages were covered with the aforementioned things, dating all the way back to October 10th.

The day Damian had found Tim dead in his apartment.

From the autopsy conducted by Alfred, the cause of death was clear -- an overdose on Xanax combined with copious amounts of alcohol and blood loss from the deep slashes tracing vertically on his wrists.

Tim had killed himself, and it was hard to say that no one saw it coming, because it was a blatant lie. At least, it would be a while ago.

Tim was fine on the outside. Sleep deprived, sarcastic and a bit more than traumatized, but fine. However, upon cleaning out his apartment and finding the notebook where he scattered his thoughts, it was clear to see he wasn't fine on the inside.

Damian stepped into the apartment, clad in his Robin uniform. He should've been out patrolling with Bruce and Dick, but he couldn't shake the feeling that something wasn't quite right. Tim had been sick for a few days, and contacts with him were limited to a one-word text. No one else seemed suspicious, but Tim's teenage years were present in his mind, as he had seen it first hand. Not eating, not sleeping and not wanting to live were all things connected to that, and this was a bit too familiar to Damian's liking.

Once he was inside, the smell of blood was overwhelming. He hoped, as he walked through the living room, checking every corner and nook, that it was just because Tim hadn't cleaned his Red Robin uniform from the night he had a nasty run-in with Penguin. However, once he opened the closet in the hallway and saw it hung up, clean and untouched, his hope for the best dropped to thoughts of the worse.

And that's what he was met with when he kicked open Tim's locked bedroom door.

At the sight, he ran from the apartment, back into the cool air of the patio. He took a few shaky breaths, eyes closed, before pressing the button on his earpiece.

"Drake. Immediately."

The words were simple, a bit choked out, but they must've understood as, not even ten minutes later, they were by his side.

After Dick asked him what was wrong and didn't get a verbal answer, only a blank face and a point into the open apartment, they stepped inside, ready to fight from their stances.

Dick had the same reaction as Damian did except, instead of dissociating, he vomited on the pavement. Through Dick muffled cries, Damian could faintly hear Bruce calling for the Batmobile. The next hour or so were lost on Damian's mind. He didn't remember getting home, showering, painting the picture of shaggy black hair framed around a cold, sunken face or getting into bed. He only came out of the trace when he felt Dick's arms wrap around him, as tight as they'd even been.

Dick's words were lost to him, but from the movement his lips made on his back, he was repeating "I'm sorry" and "I love you". Afterwards, Damian fell asleep.

The funeral was set for a week from then, and now, it was two weeks after it. The house was still, everyone was just a bit off, news outlets were covering the Drake-Wayne name nonstop and nothing made sense but the routine of his everyday life.


End file.
